Growing up, I used to eat in a cafeteria with thousands of identical cadets who never mentioned that everybody around them looked and sounded precisely alike. They could eat, shower, and shave side by side and not see the similarities they shared with the men next to them because of cerebral programming in their DNA. Even though they knew everyone else was a clone, they never suspected their own synthetic creation. Around the orphanage, people used to say that clones were wired to self-destruct if they ever understood the truth of their origin.
“Have you ever played poker?” Guttman asked. “It’s a great game. Laying your cards and catching everyone flatfooted”—he grinned as if in ecstasy—“there’s no better feeling.”
“I’ve never played,” I said.
“Stick with me, you’ll make a fortune,” Guttman said, sounding elated finally to have somebody who would listen to him.
Not having much to say to Guttman, I watched the desert as we drove. All I saw was sand and rock and clear blue sky. The ride lasted two hours—two hours trapped with Guttman. I was ready to hop off the truck and walk after the first hour. By the time we finally saw the city, my head hurt from all of Guttman’s babbling.
Built almost entirely out of sandstone bricks, Morrow-town blended into its environment. I saw the shapes of the buildings long before I realized what they were.
“Here we are,” Rickman yelled as he parked in a wide alleyway. Our muffler sputtered, and the chassis trembled as the engine coughed smoke.
“I hate these trucks,” Guttman moaned.
With few words spoken, the platoon divided into groups. Some men went to a saloon where they got drunk on a daily basis. They could not afford clean water, but whiskey and beer were in the budget. Others quietly kept girlfriends in town. Not wanting a generation of half-clone children, Unified Authority scientists designed clones that were sterile, but that did not mean that they left out the sex drive. “The goal is to copulate, not populate,” a drill sergeant once told me.
Guttman waited for me beside the truck. “Come with me. I’ll get you into the best game in Morrowtown,” he said in a secretive tone. Not having heard any better offers, I went with Guttman. “Leave your helmet in the truck. It makes you look silly,” he added.
“I think I’ll keep it on just the same.” Okay, I was already absent without leave, technically speaking, but I saw no point in adding “out of uniform” to the list of charges.
“Suit yourself, but you’re going to scare the locals,” Guttman said, sounding a bit deflated. But nobody seemed scared of me. The people ignored us. Children played happily as we passed them on the street. A gang of teenagers stood on a sidewalk flipping coins against a wall. They paused to stare at us, then went on gambling.
It shouldn’t be like this, I thought to myself. They should be a little afraid of us. Guttman, bobbing his head and waving at everyone we passed, clearly did not agree with me. His juvenile excitement showed in his chubby smile as he led me into a squat building that looked more like a bunker than a bar. Perhaps he liked the idea of showing off a new friend. Maybe he just loved playing cards. He came to this game every day and never grew tired of it.
“Ah, good, Taj Guttman. Excellent,” a soft voice mumbled with an accent so thick that I could barely understand it. A short man with a round body and a head that was as bald as an egg approached us. He could not have been taller than five-foot-two. He smiled as if he was glad to see us, but something in his oily voice said otherwise.
“Kline.” The name splashed out of Guttman’s mouth.
“You are early today,” the little round man continued, as I strained to decipher his words. This was the first time I had actually heard a Gobi native speak. He stretched vowels and slurred consonants so that when he next said, “And you have brought a friend,” it sounded like, ’aaaant you heeef broood a fryent.” He flashed his smile at me as he sized me up. “We have another visitor today as well.” In Kline’s thick tongue, the word “visitor” sounded like “fiztor.”
Guttman turned to me, and said in an unnecessarily loud voice, “This ugly mutt is Kline.” Up to this point in the trip, Guttman had struck me as being slow and stupid, but he had a way with languages. He matched Kline’s accent perfectly when speaking to the locals, but had not a trace of an accent when speaking to me. Then he turned to Kline, and said, “And this is Harris. Sorry about the helmet; I told him that it makes him look silly.”
“Harris” sounded like “Haaritz.” “Silly” was “tziillie.”
“I’m just here to watch,” I said.
“Watch?” Kline asked as his smile faded. “This game is for players only.”
“He’ll play,” Guttman said.
“Perhaps I should leave then,” I said. “I’ve never played, and from everything Guttman tells me, this is no game for beginners.”
“Nonsense,” Guttman chimed in. “Of course he’ll play.”
“I wish you would,” a soft voice said in beautiful Earth English. Someone had moved in behind me as Guttman and Kline led the way to the card room where several more players milled around a table. “I’m new at the game myself, and I hate the idea of getting swindled alone.” A tall man with thinning white hair and a well-trimmed beard stepped out from the shadows along the wall.
“You must have money to burn,” I said. “Guttman here is a card shark.”
“Is he?” the man said, his eyes narrowing. His mouth was all teeth and grins, but the warm smile did not extend to his eyes.
Guttman giggled nervously. “It’s all just fun.”
“I’m living on enlisted-man wages,” I said, “and my next check does not arrive for a week. I doubt I even have enough cash to buy my way into the game.”
“You may wager your weapon,” Kline said. “Sidearms are as good as cash at this table.”
“What was that?” I asked in astonishment.
“Don’t worry,” Guttman said, giggling nervously. He stepped closer to me, and whispered, “I never come here with cash.”
“I think I’m in the wrong place,” I said, already deciding that I would report this to Godfrey the moment we got back to base. I had never imagined such insubordination.
“I have no objection to your watching the game,” the bearded man said.
“They’ll pass information over their communications link,” another player complained, looking at my helmet. “He’ll tell Taj what we have in our hands.”
“As I understand it, that link only works if both soldiers are wearing helmets,” the bearded man said.
“What do you say?” Guttman asked Kline.
Kline considered. “Sit behind Guttman, and no walking around.”
I agreed.
“And I insist that you check your weapon,” said Kline, pointing at my pistol.
Seeing me hesitate, Guttman chimed in. “It will be safe. You cannot go anywhere in Morrowtown wearing your sidearm.”
Though I did not like the idea, I unstrapped my holster and handed it to Kline.
The seven men closed in around a large round table. I sat in a chair behind Guttman and watched as Kline dealt each player five cards—two facing up and three facing down. Guttman slipped his pudgy thumb under the corner of the three downturned cards and peered at their values.
The card room had no windows. The only light in the room was the pale glow of a lamp hanging over the table. I would not have been able to read Guttman’s cards had I removed my helmet. Our visors had lenses and filters designed for battle situations. Using optical commands, I activated a night-for-day lens that brightened my vision, then I used a magnification lens to get a better look at Guttman’s cards. When he bent the corners to have a look, I saw that he had two threes and an ace on the table. The cards that had been placed faceup were a king and a six.